


it's wrong to take what is given you

by apostolosian (mercutioes)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink, fic for some firebrands oc's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 09:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/apostolosian
Summary: orison goes looking for something. donovann offers.





	it's wrong to take what is given you

**Author's Note:**

> we played a real good firebrands game
> 
> donovann swift (mine) - landowner lounge singer with a dead husband and a smoking problem
> 
> orison grisaille (julian's) - bantraesh pretty boy who maybe isn't the most emotionally adept
> 
> dylan lee (meghan's) - offscreen revolutionary kid who booked it out of bantral city after having a threesome with the former two which turned sad and bad the morning after
> 
> title from "rich girl" by hall and oates

Donovann would be hard-pressed to explain how they ended up like this again, but neither of them have a track record of  _ great _ decisions when it comes to each other, so… here they are, pressed up against the door to the dressing room, Orison’s arms boxing him in and lips insistent on his own.

Donovann reaches up to run fingers over Orison’s scalp and he leans into it, biting sharp at Donovann’s lips.  Orison’s not usually this aggressive, his kiss almost violent, and it makes Donovann pull back.  Orison chases him, lips skating down his jaw to bite at Donovann’s throat, and he gasps, digging nails into the back of Orison’s neck.

“Harder,” growls Orison, something desperate in his voice, and he groans into Donovann’s neck when Donovann scrapes long lines down his back with his free hand.  And suddenly, it all falls into place.  He slides his hand up Orison’s spine, cups the back of his neck, digs his nails in and  _ pulls _ .  Orison rears back, eyes wild.

“Listen, kid,” says Donovann, tightening his grip on Orison’s neck, “if you wanted me to rough you up, you could have just asked.”

Orison doesn’t say anything, tries to move and is stopped by Donovann’s iron grip.

"Is that what you came here for?" he asks again, a smirk tilting the corner of his lips.  "What, you want me to punish you? Fuck some of that guilt away?"   
  
Orison casts his eyes to the side, says nothing but his silence speaks volumes. Donovann shifts his hand so he’s gripping Orison’s jaw tight, gets close enough that their lips brush.   
  
"Answer me."

"Yeah," he says, voice hoarse, "yeah, I want that."

Donovann grins, but there's nothing joyful or kind in it. He holds Orison there for a long moment, lets him squirm in anticipation of what's coming next.  And then in one smooth movement, he releases Orison’s jaw and grabs his throat, squeezing just slightly - not enough to cut off airflow, but enough to be a threat.  Orison gasps, scrabbles at his arm with shaking hands.  Donovann uses his grip to walk him backwards, throw him down on the couch.  Orison lands with a punched-out noise, eyes wide and pupils blown.  He rubs absently at his neck where Donovann’s fingers had been.

Donovann moves to straddle Orison’s hips, pins him down with his weight and his gaze.

“Here’s how this is gonna work,” says Donovann, conversational despite Orison’s arousal digging into his ass.  “If you want me to slap you or choke you or tie you up, you’re going to have to ask for it.”

“Come _ on _ ,” Orison mutters, rolling his eyes.  “You know what I want.”

Donovann grabs his chin again, forces Orison to look at him.

“If you  _ want _ something,” he whispers, low and rough, “you’re going to  _ ask me for it _ .”  And  _ that _ makes Orison swallow hard, former arrogance lost.

Quietly, so quietly that Donovann can barely hear him, Orison mutters, “slap me.”

“What was that?”  Orison takes a deep breath.

“ _ Slap me _ .”  Donovann grins, releases his chin and strokes over Orison’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“Now, was that so hard?”

And without warning, he rears back and strikes Orison across the face, hard and sharp.  The crack of it rings loud in the quiet of the room and Orison groans, a ragged sound.  His hands come up to grip Donovann’s hips, fingers digging into his skin through his pants, and  _ that _ won’t do.  He takes hold of Orison’s wrists, slams them into the arm of the couch above his head, fingers gripping tight enough to bruise.  Orison whines, struggling against him but to no avail.  Donovann grins.

“Want me to tie you up, sweetheart?”

Orison knows better than to argue this time, just nods shakily up at him.  Donovann lets go of his wrists to unbuckle his own belt, slide it slow out of the loops, run it over his palms - it makes Orison squirm deliciously under him, and he’s feeling mean tonight.

He loops it around Orison’s wrists, cinching it tight enough to leave bruises come morning.  He sits back when he’s finished, grinds his hips down on Orison’s arousal just to hear him gasp.  And Orison looks so  _ vulnerable _ there, trussed up and flush high on his cheek from Donovann’s hand, and Donovann doesn’t consider himself a cruel man but he knows that’s what Orison’s looking for right now.

“So, what,” says Donovann, undoing the buttons one by one on Orison’s expensive-looking shirt, “is this the part where I tell you what a terrible person you are?  That you deserve to be punished, that you deserve to be hit and choked and fucked raw?”

He reaches the last button, bares Orison’s chest and drags his nails down his smooth skin hard enough to leave long, red lines.  Orison whimpers, bites his lip to keep from crying out loud enough to reach the patrons out at the bar.  Donovann laughs, cold and cruel.  He doesn’t know what’s come over him, but he knows he won’t be satisfied until Orison’s wrecked under him.

“I’m waiting for an answer, sweetheart,” he says, reaching back up to put a threatening hand on his throat.

“God,  _ please _ ,” Orison gasps, sobs when Donovann grinds down again on his arousal.  “Choke me, fuck me,  _ please _ .”

“Look at you,” smirks Donovann, tightening his grip and rolling his hips in rhythm now.  “The good little Bantraesh comes to me, looking to get the guilt fucked right out of him.”  He leans down, bites sharp at Orison’s earlobe, never slowing his hips.  “Do you think Lee would be happy, seeing you like this?  Think he would like to help me punish you?”

Orison sobs in his ear, and this time it sounds  _ wet _ .  Sure enough, when Donovann pulls back to look at him there are tears streaming down his cheeks.  It’s jarring enough that Donovann almost stops and checks in, save for the soft babbling escaping Orison’s kiss-swollen lips,  _ please _ and  _ fuck me _ and  _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry _ .

Donovann speeds the motion of his hips, tightens his grip on Orison’s neck until he’s gasping for breath, and then all at once Orison releases a long, high keening as he comes in his pants, sticky and hot under Donovann’s ass.  Orison’s hands clench and unclench where they’re still tied above his head and Donovann can see the beginnings of the marks on his wrists that will surely last days.

When Orison finally stills below him, Donovann undoes the belt, tosses it to the side.  He gets up off the couch, goes over to his vanity to find his cigarettes and lights one up.  He hasn’t come, is still mostly hard, but this wasn’t about  _ him _ , really.  He swivels his vanity chair to face the couch from across the room, collapses into it, takes a long drag.

“So was that what you wanted?” he asks, releasing a long plume of smoke.  Orison looks at him, eyes only half-focused, still breathing hard and rubbing at his wrists absently.

“I --”  Orison looks away, down at his hands and the wet patch forming on the front of his pants.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I guess it was.”

“Good,” says Donovann.  “Good.”

They sit in silence for a minute, two minutes.  Donovann’s cigarette is almost done when Orison breaks the quiet.

“You didn’t…  Did you want me to --”  He gestures vaguely at Donovann’s arousal.  Donovann laughs, hollow.

“No,” he says, taking one last drag and grinding the butt into an ashtray.  “Not tonight.”

Another silence, long and horrid.

“I should go,” says Orison, buttoning up his shirt and avoiding Donovann’s gaze.  Donovann laughs again.

“Yeah, I think you should,” he replies.

Orison gathers up his coat from the floor, buttons it up to mask the come drying tacky on his pants.  He pauses in the doorway, looks back at Donovann.

“Thanks,” he says, awkward and unsure.

“Don’t mention it, kid,” replies Donovann, voice devoid of warmth.  He turns around to light another cigarette -- a clear dismissal if there ever was one.

He goes through two more cigarettes in quick succession, blowing thick smoke out into the too-empty room.


End file.
